E Pluribus Unum
by Spotlight Effect
Summary: "No bird can fly forever, America," the name was spat out like venom from a wound, "it must always return to the nest."


_**Note: I've re-uploaded this to try and fix the formatting, and because I've added a fair amount more in terms of references and dialogue.**_

_**Reviews are loved; critique is welcomed; slander, flaming, and mean comments are rude and immature. All I ask is that if you care to drop a comment, please refrain from being anonymous.**_

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The first time America witnessed a bald eagle was in his very early years, the early sixteen hundreds he supposes, when he was not much more than two or three colonies compounded together. It was centuries ago, before he was truly America: when he was slowly morphing from a mix of New Netherlands, the New England Confederation, and the Crown Colony of Virginia. It was puberty at its finest, with constant mood swings and abnormal growth spurts as the Massachusetts Bay Colony—and eventually numerous others-was formed.

It was during England's stubborn blockade of Virginia when America first saw the bird. The two had fought over yet another nit-picking mishap, and both were too stubborn to apologize or admit their wrong. In frustration America had fled to his back woods, far from the native tribes and encroaching farmers, to a dank alcove of trees and thrush. It was there he saw it, a thick and healthy bird taking off from a dead sycamore tree.

Young America was transfixed by the dark wings, the white head, the incendiary yellow eyes that stood out against the entire horizon. He watched it skim on thermals and track fish in the deep blue rivers. It was all the power of nature refined into a small, dangerous beast.

For his simple young mind it was infatuation at first sight.

For decades he would bird watch in secrecy as royal charters were handed out, natives were killed, and as England's sway on him became stronger. Immigrants from all over Europe were fleeing into his lands, changing America from the small native boy with dark walnut hair into a fine Aryan. Birdwatching was his vice as his population grew and changed across his lands; as his bones creaked from growth. Peaceful lurking within his woods was a much need reprise from the chaos that was becoming the melting pot of thirteen colonies.

During the long months of England's absence to the House of Lords across the Atlantic, America would take away to the rivers deep within his slowly expanding territory and wait for the eagles. As a boy it made him feel cunning, dangerous, sure of his prowess and ability to catch glimpses of the bird. England could not do this, only America. Year after year his infatuation became adoration and respect, and he could almost never tear his mind away from flying like the eagles. His obsession was brinking on detrimental.

Another century passed, and America had grown into a fine young man, one England had become quite taken with. America was strong, bold, and had grown into great strength and eyes blue as his skies and rivers and fine turquoise. He had become brash and aggressive, and no longer let England sway his opinion or pin him against the French. America was becoming rebellious and dangerous, demanding more than just the Albany Congress and borders past the Appalachian Mountains.

Constantly they fought over stupid and frivolous things, bickering like spinsters. In fits of unmasked rage England would attempt to tear America to shreds, attacking everything near and dear to him, to break him so he would come crawling back to England's stiff embrace. England tried to dissect every ounce of rebellion out of America, including the very symbol that brought the ideas of freedom to his mind.

"You stupid boy. You ignorant, selfish, sham of a government!" he yelled. "Rid yourself of these fantasies at once!"

But America stood firm. "No, England, I won't," he said, voice of steel and eyes of ice. "My freedom is no _fantasy_, it is my reality, my future. And by the eagles in my skies I will rid myself of such tyranny."

England flushed with rage, his gaze flickering like burning copper. "Tyranny? _Eagles_? Ha!" he scoffed at him. "Now is not the time to be swearing by little chirping birds, boy. You've been living in a dream for far too long; some glorified pigeon isn't going to grant you enlightenment."

"Stop, England," he whispered. America never questioned England's crest—the lion, the unicorn—no matter how ridiculous it looked as it became even more fantastical over the decades. No, he was taught to always respect England's symbols, to never utter a word of slander. And yet, here he was, face to face with England's hypocrisy. For the love of all that was holy, England was a practicing _witch_; America should have pressed him to death, but he had learned to feign ignorance. "_Please."_ America felt his dignity being torn in two.

"I'll just shoot the damn bird through the heart and tear off his wings, for good measure, of course." England continued on, taking America's pleas and surrender in stride. "Although I won't care for the incessant shrieking." He smirked. "Quite hard on the ears."

"They shriek for freedom,"* America tried.

"That's absurd New England-"

America cut him off. "No. Stop it-That's not my name. That's not my entirety." He looked up at England's face, almost the same height as him. "I'm not some feeble extension, some reflection of you, England. I am not your colony any longer." America's hands curled into anxious fists; his toes writhed within his riding boots. An uneven deep breath. "And I will not stop fighting you until you acknowledge me as thus."

"All these years I have protected you from the filth of the Earth, crossing oceans and fighting wars. And yet you rebel? Against me? You are incapable." England seethed. "Not two years and seventy after I took you in you began to fall apart. Killing and shooting your own people; you are a failed experiment, not a country."*

For a moment there was silence as America looked up at England, poorly masked hurt in his eyes. England drank it in, feeding his ego. The air hung heavy with pretension as England adjusted his cravat. "No bird can fly forever, _America_," the name was spat out like venom from a wound, "it must always return to the nest."

America bristled, defeated. "Now be gone from my sight. There is yet Quebec for me to conquer." America strode past England and out the door, shamed from losing the same argument one hundred times previous. The look of entitlement England gave him as he left emasculated him further as he fled.

-

A mister Benjamin Franklin was America's go-to man in the tense years of the mid-seventeen hundreds. America was high-strung and seemingly buzzed at all times as Georgia become a royal colony. To calm America's now office-ridden mind they often shared conversation and admiration for the eagles that America constantly brought up, and at times spoke of liberation from England's grasp. Benjamin insisted that when America left the England's nest he should adopt a turkey as his symbol, for it was modest and humble, a true native American. "The eagle is a bird of bad moral character,"*** Benjamin would argue. "A turkey would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade his farmyard with a red coat on."****

As years passed and America's relationship with England became even more stressed, America and Benjamin spoke more and more of freedom and independence. They spoke of the transformation of America into a true country under one name, instead of the haphazard title of 'the thirteen colonies.' He felt betrayed and alone, as if England was truly the mercantilist France had tried to convince him he was. "Yet who is France to trust?" he asked himself. "They only wish me a marionette, and they themselves the masters."

America cringed; he felt as though England was whoring him out, drawing in the profit of America's growth, and then demanding even more. Furs, tobacco, sugar; England was just as vile as France, and yet he made himself out as a saint. A savior. England was supposed to_ love _him, not _use _him. America remained conflicted.

He often spoke to the eagles about this, murmuring to himself in some secluded corner of forest as he watched them tumble down, legs locked tight in a mating dance. "Are we not companions? Are we not as you are?" he asked them. He watched the birds, how they held tight to one another, complete trust-or was it genetic instinct-between the two. Not long ago he and England were the same. But then, it seemed America's blind faith and loyalty to England was the very hammer driving them apart.

"Does an eagle protect his son, or does he cast him away the moment he can fly?" No answer. The wind was catching up, bending branches and leaves against themselves.

He saw other raptors that soared higher and were much larger and more powerful than his dear bald eagles. Their bodies golden, and their wings like black nails into the sky. The exuded authority and power over the other small song birds, flying wherever their hearts desired. And yet his own smaller eagles still flew in their spiral, strong and demanding although a greater power threatened to rip them from the sky. They were free.

America was enamored with the raw power of the small bird. It was his lifeline, his symbol, the very blood in his veins. There was a beautiful rightness in the animal that reflected upon America's mind. With heavy wings the eagle beat away the clouds of uncertainty and encouraged him to do as Paine had written and cast off little England once and for all.

-

America was out looking for his eagles the day the Declaration of Independence made it's way into England's drawing room. A juvenile was preening on a long dead still-standing tree, flaunting its glossy young feathers. America felt at ease for the first time in years, with no new cuts and bruises showing up from skirmishes across his lands.

The sky was clear from weeks of incessant rain and subsequent mud, and the whole earth seemed to smell more clean and alive. A black stench had covered the eastern coast of America's lands, and for days on end he could only smell decay and feel ghost pains of dirt and grim shoved too deep in his nail beds. Even with the rain, the inundation, the arduous baths, America continued to feel worn and dirty, his ebullience muffled my feelings of guilt. Yet blood from the fighting was slowly seeping down into the soil and rivers and was carrying away the stains of the past out of sight and out of mind.

He looked to the heavens for guidance. The juvenile had taken flight and was lazily gliding across the horizon.

For a moment the eagle locked eyes with him, and America felt something inside him click into place. He said nothing, only sighing in contentment at the relief that soaked into him like a fine lotion. The eagle's eyes bore into his soul as he felt for the first time that he was _America_, and not the Thirteen Colonies.

The Continental Congress was functioning, at least for now, and his people were at consensus. His feeble union of states was growing up into a greater government, giving America confidence and strength to push forward into the dark New World. The Articles of Confederation, while flawed, gave America new life. There was hope yet.

Young America felt entire and sated. He felt pure and clean. He felt at peace. The eagle above him cried out as it circled about for the last time.

America closed his eyes and listened to the sky.

-  
_***This is referring to Bacon's Rebellion, which occurred in 1676. Colonists in Virginia were disgruntled because of lack of work, women, land, money, etc, and so Nathaniel Bacon led them into a revolt which mounted into backwoods colonists against the native tribes in a series of guerrilla attacks. Gov'n Berkeley was run out of office and almost killed. Charles II of England sent one thousand English troops to quell the fighting. For many years after that two regiments stayed for security.**_

_****Quote from Maude M. Grant. **_

_*****From a writing by Benjamin Franklin. The original quote: " I wish that the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country, he is a bird of bad moral character, he does not get his living honestly. . ."**_

_******Once again from the same writing by Franklin: "For a truth, the turkey is in comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America . . . a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade his farmyard with a red coat on."**_


End file.
